


The Principality and the Serpent of Eden

by gypsyweaver



Series: A Tale of Crowns and Coins [15]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Breakfast, Comfort, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Food Porn, French Revolution, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, No Smut, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens), Thirsty Crowley (Good Omens), Warlock And Beelzebub are only mentioned in this part, mentioned - Freeform, we had crepes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 10:41:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24349702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gypsyweaver/pseuds/gypsyweaver
Summary: After falling asleep on Aziraphale, Crowley wakes up to the first day of the rest of his existence. So far, the food is delicious and the company is charming. What could possibly go wrong?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: A Tale of Crowns and Coins [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1684990
Comments: 3
Kudos: 33





	The Principality and the Serpent of Eden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cumae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cumae/gifts).



> CW: Another fluffy chapter. Enjoy, for the angst returns and with haste.

Crowley woke up in a strange place, in the way that he always woke up in a strange place. That is to say, he woke up, realized that he was not safe in his own bed, and promptly threw himself onto the floor.

Crowley did not intend to end up on the floor, it’s just that he wanted to be away from whatever place he had woken up in, and that necessitated the floor.

Nose to the warm wood, he breathed. Crowley realized that he knew this place. The bookshop. Aziraphale’s. He was fine.

He was still dressed as Nanny Ashtoreth. He’d mashed his tits most uncomfortably in his sleepy vault from the velvet couch. Also, his nose. Crowley got to his feet, unsteadily. Where was the angel?

He could smell food, and that was certainly promising. He liked Aziraphae’s cooking. It was top notch, aided by miracles, better than anything he got anywhere else. He had a strong suspicion that Aziraphale would say that the secret ingredient was angelic love (or something similarly pithy) but Crowley didn’t care.

Crowley straightened himself up, changed his clothes and corporation back to his usual. He breathed in the scent of paper, ink, and breakfast. He found his glasses and put them on his nose. He smiled, tongue touching a canine.

It struck Crowley, quite suddenly, that he was happy.

He’d woken up in the bookshop. That had only happened once, after the Blitz, and he certainly hadn’t fallen asleep in the same fashion. Cradled by Aziraphale--held by him--feeling safer than he ever had. Still, like the last time, he felt healthier somehow. As if drifting off in a bookshop was good for his health.

He ran a hand through his hair. In his memory, just after the sirens had stopped and the Blitz was over, the angel’s voice quavered.

“Oh, I’m certain that I’ll suffer for it,” he’d said, his hands shaking around the mug of cocoa that he nursed, but did not drink. “But, if I hadn’t done it...Crowley, you were so close to the Baptismal fount...”

Holy water varied in strength. Zealots could make water so holy that a single drop would be enough to kill. The holiest. That kind of stuff was so caustic that thinking about it too hard might prove deadly. Whoever blessed that particular Baptismal fount was a Believer with a capital “B”.

Aziraphale had used an unauthorized miracle to keep that fount from exploding all over Crowley. Whatever punishment that he faced for it, the angel had never said. Crowley had never asked.

He’d sat on this very couch and watched Aziraphale stare into his cocoa and contemplate his fate.

“I missed you,” he’d said, and the first tears had fallen into his mug. “I haven’t really got...other people...”

Crowley had not restricted himself to cocoa, and was (therefore) more than a bit knackered. He thought he’d said something to Aziraphale, probably something dreadfully revealing. But everything after Aziraphale’s admission was smeary (to a point) and then blank.

But, like now, he’d woken up feeling like a million bucks. He blamed the bookshop, and proximity to the only thing God ever made that was worth saving.

“Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale called down from upstairs. “Are you up?”

“Yeah, angel.”

“Want some breakfast? I made crepes and omelets!”

Crowley smiled. “That sounds delicious.”

And it did.

“Crepes and omelets” turned out to be quite a spread.

“These are apple and cream cheese crepes, and these are lingonberry. These last are peaches and cream. Oh, and the omelets!” Aziraphale dramatically swept a piping hot platter onto the table. “These are duck egg omelets, and I made them with Gruyère, Comté, and Beaufort. Also, sautéed mushrooms and onions, and just a touch of garlic!” He waved at a heavy ceramic trencher of bacon. “Applewood smoked bacon, and the market had a simply marvelous selection of berries and melons today!” Aziraphale helpfully pointed out the cut crystal bowl that held the cut fruit. “To drink? Eggnog for you and cocoa for me. That's it, I think.”

Crowley’s angel remained a sheer miracle. He sat down as Aziraphale untied his apron and sat across the table from him.

“Looks great,” Crowley said.

“Thanks,” Aziraphale said, pulling several crepes from the platter onto his own plate. “All your favorites, and some of mine.”

“You and your crepes...”

“What about crepes?”

“Did you forget the French Revolution, angel? Little trouble you got into in the Bastille?” Crowley shot him a pointed look over his dark glasses.

Aziraphale blushed. “Oh, you don’t still think I was there for crepes, do you?”

“Uh...yeah.”

“No, actually,” the angel said, blushing more. “I had an assignment. A few miracles to ensure that Robespierre got fed to his own dastardly machine.”

“How did you end up at the BASTILLE, then?”

“Oh...um...I...er...” Aziraphale blushed even harder. “The peasants probably would have just burned those beautiful libraries...”

“You were STEALING? Stealing BOOKS?”

Aziraphale huffed. “Yes! And things were going absolutely swimmingly until those terrible gendarmes found me and assumed that I was a houseguest of one of the soon-to-be-deceased.”

Crowley found Aziraphale’s admission every bit as delicious as the breakfast. Every one of Aziraphale’s sins only served to sharpen the blades that twisted inside him. He was honing Crowley’s love (and, frankly, his lust.) Did the angel know how alluring his misbehavior was? Crowley doubted it.

“I never asked, how did you find me?” Aziraphale asked.

“Right place, right time,” Crowley lied. Lies came easily to him. “Breakfast looks amazing. What’s the occasion?”

“Oh, the beginning of the rest of our lives.”

“Our lives?”

“Yours and mine, yes?” Aziraphale said. “And Warlock’s.”

“And Warlock’s?” Crowley asked, beginning to feel like an echo chamber.

“You said he’d settled in well at Eton. I got the pictures you sent me of his room--whatever is that flag you hung up over his bed?”

“It’s the American Satan flag.”

“Really, dear?”

“It’s from a movie!” Crowley said, around his first crepe, which was absolutely divine. “He loves it! And it’s perfect for him!”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Oh, dear...Well, that stuffed Baphomet was adorable.”

“Thank you!” Crowley said, triumphantly spearing a melon cube. “He loved his books, by the way.”

Aziraphale paused, fork in midair, hovering near his mouth. Gently, he set it down. “I’d hoped. Truly,” he said. “Poisonous plants are a normal pursuit for a human boy of his age...right?”

“Spot on. Perfectly normal,” Crowley agreed.

Aziraphale laughed a bit, just under his breath, and went back to his breakfast. “Oh, good. Good, good.”

The food was truly marvelous, and the company was pleasant, even as they fell into a comfortable silence. Crowley ate like a snake, which is to say, speedily. That was fine. He saved the eggnog for last, and it was like silk on his tongue. Tangy from the copper mule that it was served in, and sweetly spicy as he swallowed.

Most importantly, his speedy eating gave him time to appreciate his dining companion.

Aziraphale tended to savor his food. Little bites and little noises. A face that radiated joy. It made Crowley long for the ability to sense his emotions, but that was beyond him, and had been for ages.

Still, it was easy to get lost in the way the morning light burnished Aziraphale’s white hair to a warm rose gold. Easier still to lose himself in the soft dent of a pensive fork against a plump, pink lip. Fingers, so nimble for his strength, dancing lightly over utensils and food. The way that he could show pleasure with his whole being, the way that a particularly good morsel could cause his whole person to relax. Could cause his whole person to shine.

The angel had always been the most divine mistake that Crowley ever made. Falling for him was not a vague saunter. It was a swan dive into a pool of razorblades. It was as toxic as oxygen.

He knew that God would never love him--and he couldn’t help but think that might be a good thing. But the angel’s attention was like the heat of a crackling fire against the winter of his existence. His endearments and thoughtfulness uncaged something in Crowley’s chest. Something fragile and neglected. Something used to the cold and the shadows.

But this love, unrequited and dangerously sharp, it bled him and bled him. It left him weak and afraid. He returned to the well, drinking deep and knowing it was poison.

Crowley loved an angel who loved God. He never wanted his angel to turn from God (to Fall), and surely, loving a demon would be unforgivable. So, he contented (attempted to content) himself with a gentle longing. His love became a playful jealousy, a wish to be the sunlight kissing his sweet face, the fork sliding between his lips, the food that he (so lovingly) consumed.

“Well, breakfast has been accomplished, if I do say so myself,” Aziraphale said.

“Want me to take care of the dishes?” Crowley asked.

“If you would...”

Crowley knew that Aziraphale was still nervous about using miracles. He didn’t know how closely he was being watched. Crowley had no similar compunctions. Crowley doubted that his semi-suicidal ex-boss would decide to leave the Basement to discuss matters.

After all, Sandalphon was still on the loose, and after Ekron...

“Traitor,” they’d called him.

“That’s not a nice word,” he’d replied.

What he’d wanted to say was, “I didn’t mean to fall in love with him.”

What he’d wanted to say was, “It’s not my fault that nobody ever loved you.”

What he’d wanted to say was, “The world looks so different when you’re in love.”

But he hadn’t, and the moment passed with a snarky comment from the Lord of the Flies. The world didn’t end on an airstrip in Tadfield, life ticked on, and Crowley kept using infernal miracles.

The dishes vanished from the table and reappeared in Aziraphale’s cabinets and drawers, spotlessly clean and sterilized.

“So, what’s next?” he asked Aziraphale. “For the first day of the rest of our lives?”

“I suppose we ought to wait for Warlock to contact us, oughtn’t we?” Aziraphale asked, worried. “It would seem awfully...clingy...of us to jot off an e-mail so quickly, wouldn’t it?”

“Mm...yeah. It would.”

“Then...maybe...I think we need to talk.”

“Sure. Yeah. Anything in particular, angel?”

“Not at the table...can we go downstairs?”

“Yeah, alright,” Crowley said. “What’s wrong with the table? Table’s got ears?”

“No, dear...I just don’t want it between us. If that’s alright.” Aziraphale’s lip was quivering. He was flushed, and looked about ready to cry.

“Yeah, angel. It’s fine.” Crowley said, up and out of his chair. “What’s wrong? Did you hear from those Heavenly bastards?”

“No, no...this is about me. And you. You and me. Things that happened before. Things...that I hid from you. I have to tell you.” Aziraphale trailed off. “I...I want to. And if...after...if you hate me, never want to see me again, never want to speak...never want to speak to me...” The tears began to fall, and Crowley found himself torn between wanting the truths that Aziraphale hinted at and wanting to run away. He froze, waiting for the rest. “If you hate me for it all, I think that’s perfectly understandable.”

Aziraphale smiled through his tears, like sunshine through the rain. Years later, when he thought back on that moment, Crowley felt certain that he already knew. Somehow, Aziraphale missed something. Or maybe his stubborn skin couldn’t forget the angel’s hands and lips as easily as his brain did.

At the time, though, Crowley took a shaking and hesitant breath, ran his hand through his hair, and stepped aside to let Aziraphale lead him downstairs, back to the red velvet couch.

Aziraphale perched on the edge, a bird that desperately wanted to take wing. Crowley sprawled against the other armrest. He regarded the angel over his shades, waiting for the worst.

“I’m a dreadful angel,” Aziraphale said. “Gabriel was right about that much. I’m a worse Principality. But...but...Crowley...” His name was a plea in the angel’s mouth. “Crowley, dear. I did what I did...I did it out of love.”

“Love?” Crowley chuckled. It was a melancholy sound. “I didn’t think you cared that much for me, really. Just a bit of bad circumstance that we ended up stuck together.”

Aziraphale visibly paled. “No! Absolutely not! No. I love you.” He paused, staring at his perfectly manicured fingernails. Crowley felt as if he’d been slapped. “That’s the problem, really. I love you so dreadfully, and so selfishly. I put you in danger. I am a horrible angel--I’m not even a good person. I...”

“You love me?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Aziraphale said.

“Since when?”

“Oysters in Rome...Rome falling...it didn’t hurt me as badly as it should have--”

“‘As it should have’...?”

“You see, I was the Principality of Rome...” he said. “And then...it changed. Over oysters, and everything after...” Aziraphale looked down and mumbled something.

“Didn’t catch that last part, angel.”

“I became the Principality...of you!”

**Author's Note:**

> For the delightful Cumae, who liked my last chapter.
> 
> Smut is coming. Next chapter, I think.
> 
> This detour into Ineffable Hubs will eventually lead us (ADORABLY, I swear it!) back to Ineffable Bureaucracy! I promise.
> 
> Alright, notes:
> 
> Oxygen is actually toxic. We had to adapt to breathe it, and once we did, we couldn't live without it.
> 
> [The American Satan flag](https://intrinsicvaluefilms.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/12/13239162_572349666260433_7571748823394209276_n.jpg)
> 
> [A BAPHOMET PLUSHIE!!!](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/f7/36/00/f73600365c9c67b6cfab7a6f545957e4--cute-stuff-awesome-stuff.jpg)
> 
> [The Handbook of Poisonous and Injurious Plants](https://www.amazon.com/Handbook-Poisonous-Injurious-Plants-Nelson/dp/0387312684) \--> From Brother Francis to Warlock
> 
> [Plants that Kill](https://www.amazon.com/Plants-That-Kill-Natural-Poisonous/dp/0691178763/ref=pd_bxgy_img_2/145-2453040-6786409?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_i=0691178763&pd_rd_r=1b89e36a-a8fd-4727-aacb-3169325c9c97&pd_rd_w=VWdRr&pd_rd_wg=phLVE&pf_rd_p=4e3f7fc3-00c8-46a6-a4db-8457e6319578&pf_rd_r=2NJESQ7YZRAYY22B90N9&psc=1&refRID=2NJESQ7YZRAYY22B90N9)
> 
> [Plants that Can Kill](https://www.amazon.com/Plants-That-Can-Kill-Species/dp/1510726780/ref=pd_bxgy_img_3/145-2453040-6786409?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_i=1510726780&pd_rd_r=6c4d5ad5-47a8-41d1-9495-2dc9e0123cfb&pd_rd_w=C3mMV&pd_rd_wg=UWktC&pf_rd_p=4e3f7fc3-00c8-46a6-a4db-8457e6319578&pf_rd_r=C2Z7BPQTTR480NDT4CVW&psc=1&refRID=C2Z7BPQTTR480NDT4CVW)
> 
> Also from the last part, this is who I imagined as the Dowling's new gardener/thirst trap. [If you know the movie that this is from, we should be friends!](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/6d/f7/90/6df7904ff39693f4a8cfddee7e12c5d1.jpg)
> 
> [These are the precious kittens that I'm fostering.](https://sedehaven.tumblr.com/post/618891890212978688/i-feel-terrible-and-havent-been-writing-anything) This photo is a weak old, and they've only gotten cuter. Kathryn, Weasley, and Reznor.
> 
> I haven't been writing much. Chronic illness beats me up sometimes.
> 
> Comments and kudos are the friends we make along the way!


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